


Fealty

by theorchardofbones



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bathing/Washing, King Ardyn, M/M, Non-Explicit, idek what to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-19 03:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18130265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: Where Gilgamesh stands in silent vigil, he shifts minutely — imperceptibly — to relieve his aching thighs.Ardyn has had him standing here for hours, all but ignoring his Shield’s presence, and Gilgamesh knows precisely what he’s doing.





	Fealty

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift for [ziarenete13x](http://twitter.com/ziarenete13x) over on Twitter for the FFXV Valentine's Exchange! One of their requested pairings was Gilgardyn, and they prompted 'gussied up' which... I know _technically_ I didn't follow, but it gave me the plot bunny that turned into this one shot <3

The royal apartments are quiet, and dimly lit; the only sound to break the silence is the soft rasp of sheets of paper being shuffled.

The king sits at his desk, face half cast in darkness, half in the warm glow of a lamp. He’s been at this for some time now, diligently carrying out the more tedious aspects of his title; it’s been hours since the servants retired for the night.

Where Gilgamesh stands in silent vigil, he shifts minutely — imperceptibly — to relieve his aching thighs.

Ardyn has had him standing here for hours, all but ignoring his Shield’s presence, and Gilgamesh knows  _ precisely _ what he’s doing.

When Ardyn yawns, and carefully sets his spectacles aside, Gilgamesh tenses in anticipation. He watches his king rise to his feet and meander around the desk — but he doesn’t move towards Gilgamesh, instead crossing the room to the door into his bedroom.

He doesn’t order Gilgamesh to follow.

It’s torture, this waiting, but then that’s always been the fun of it: Ardyn so enjoys asserting his power, and Gilgamesh… Well, Gilgamesh lives to serve.

His Majesty is gone for so long that the Shield begins to think he’s retired to bed to leave him standing there all night. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time, though it’s never out of any malice — Ardyn is a brilliant man, ever busy, but his genius comes with the drawback of a scatterbrain.

Gilgamesh’s head swims with exhaustion. He tries to keep himself alert by reciting the words of the vow he swore to Ardyn at his coronation, but the warmth from the fire, the dimness of the room, is enough to make him swoon on his feet.

A bell rings within the bedroom: a delicate sound, like the trickling of water in a sunlit stream. It is the sweetest thing Gilgamesh has ever heard.

He’s awake now, as alert as his king demands of him whether in the heat of battle, or in the warmth of his sheets. His heart thuds heavily as he sets off across the room and lets himself into Ardyn’s quarters.

The royal chambers are as extravagant as the king himself: opulent rugs, plush and soft as a wolf’s pelt; a vanity with a triptych mirror, the surface littered with potions and perfumes of all sorts; a chaise longue, embellished with beautiful brocade; a large, ornate four-poster bed, with curtains of gossamer.

The king is sequestered away within the curtains, in silhouette against the lamp behind him. His hair falls in soft curls, his broad shoulders bare and kissed by the lamplight.

Gilgamesh knows those shoulders well — knows the freckles that scatter across them like the great constellations, ever tattooed into his skin from years of running around carefree as a young prince. 

He waits, patiently, at the end of the bed. He will only move when summoned; only speak when spoken to.

‘Come.’

Silently, Gilgamesh moves around the bed. The curtains are parted on this side, and Ardyn sits poised at the edge of the mattress, lit up softly by the lamplight. He’s stripped out of his outermost layers — the heavy coat, the white silk blouse — and sits in little more than his breeches, stockings, and corset.

‘Untie this,’ Ardyn says, turning his back upon Gilgamesh.

It’s a medical brace, technically, but His Majesty does nothing by half — the contraption is made of bone and pale pink silk, and it contrasts wonderfully with the olive tone of his skin. It’s also a nightmare to put on and take off each morning.

Gilgamesh lowers himself to his knees, ignoring the pain that lances through him. When he turns his attention to the bindings of the corset, his touch is deft and methodical, as he’s done this many times before.

He watches Ardyn relax as the corset loosens, the strings slipping through their eyelets. He gives a soft sigh — subtle, and almost inaudible. The brace is meant to help with back pain from a childhood injury, but Gilgamesh knows it takes its toll.

Still, it’s always a shame to relieve Ardyn of his garment. The king makes for a lovely sight in it.

Once the corset is loose, Gilgamesh gently lifts the king’s arms above his head and slips the brace up and over him. Dutifully, he lays it on the cushion of the ornate chair at the vanity.

‘Run the bath,’ Ardyn says. ‘Make it hot.’

With a bow of his head, Gilgamesh retreats to the bath chamber and makes quick work of filling the tub. Fortunately there’s always hot water on tap — he doesn’t envy those who served kings and queens in the days when water had to be boiled by the basinful and carried by hand. He seeks out oils and creams to fragrance it and soothe the king’s aching joints; before long, the room is full of sweetly scented steam.

‘Come,’ Ardyn commands.

Gilgamesh shuts off the taps, and returns to his king.

‘Help me with these.’

He has his hands at the hips of his breeches, the fly already hanging open. Wordlessly, Gilgamesh moves to help.

He offers his shoulder for support as Ardyn toes off his brogues. After, Gilgamesh gently slips the stockings down, allowing his hands to wander over the muscle of the king’s calves as he goes.

He can tell Ardyn is tense; he’d work the strain from the king’s limbs, but he knows that will come later. For now, he sets to sliding the breeches down Ardyn’s hips, and lays them carefully aside.

Ardyn’s down to the linen underclothes he favours: surprisingly simple and modest, given his usual extravagant style. With a sigh of weariness, he steps around Gilgamesh and heads for the bath chamber. A click of his fingers tells Gilgamesh to follow.

Oil lamps lend a sultry glow to the room, kissing the tips of Ardyn’s hair. Gilgamesh dips his head deferentially as Ardyn allows his underclothes to fall to the floor. Only once he hears the splash and the soft groan of satisfaction that follows does he allow himself to look up.

Ardyn dwarfs the tub; his broad shoulders shore up against the back of it, although it’s long enough that he can languidly stretch his legs out, crossing them daintily at the ankles.

Gilgamesh doesn’t need to be told what to do here. He picks up a fresh cloth and wets it, lathering it with fragrant soap. Gently, he pushes Ardyn’s hair aside, draping it over his shoulder, and sets to bathing his back.

There’s an intimacy in this that Gilgamesh craves — the humble act of bathing his king. He knows that few have been within Ardyn’s chambers; fewer still have lain with him. To present himself in such a way as he is tonight, so vulnerable… Gilgamesh knows that this privilege is his alone.

He runs the wash cloth over all the old, familiar scars: the small knicks from sparring, the burns from the battlefield, the network of unnatural marks that show where Ardyn was painstakingly mended as a child.

He moves to kneel by Ardyn’s side, taking to the king’s chest with the cloth. Ardyn closes his eyes and leans back, sinking deeper into the water.

‘You can leave after this, if you wish,’ Ardyn says. ‘It’s late.’

It’s the most he’s said all night.

Gilgamesh bows his head.

‘I’ll remain as long as you have need of me, Sire.’

Next is the brushing of the king’s hair; Gilgamesh claims the gilded brush from the vanity and returns with the a small bottle of jasmine oil. While Ardyn luxuriates in the tub, he sets to work.

Ardyn’s hair hangs below his shoulders, long and prone to curling enough that it often snarls over the course of the day. Gilgamesh is gentle as he teases through the knots, and he hears Ardyn sigh with each stroke of the brush’s bristles. Once his hair is untangled and soft, Gilgamesh blots some of the jasmine oil onto his fingers and gently rubs it through the lengths of it.

It’s methodical work, one in which it’s easy to slip into a rhythm. As much as Ardyn relaxes beneath his touch, like a cat stretched out languidly in the warmth of the sun, Gilgamesh finds himself lulled, too.

Before he knows it, Ardyn’s pulling away, disrupting the hazy, dreamlike state they’ve slipped into.

Gilgamesh rises and readies a towel; he wraps the king up in it as soon as his feet touch the floor, knotting it carefully around his waist.

‘Fetch my robe,’ Ardyn says. His voice sounds less strained than it has thus far; softer, and honey-warm. ‘The black silk.’

The robe is draped delicately over the edge of the wooden screen in the bedroom; as Gilgamesh retrieves it, he hears Ardyn’s soft tread padding across the floor.

The towel whispers across skin as Gilgamesh gathers the robe gently in his hands. When he turns to the king, Ardyn awaits with damp skin, his flesh laid bare.

The robe is an ornamental thing, patterned with flowers in muted, dusky colours: reds, pinks, and oranges. It brings out the olive of Ardyn’s skin, and the auburn of his hair. As Gilgamesh slips it gently over Ardyn’s shoulders, he can’t help but admire the way it glides across his flesh, clinging to the curves and planes of him.

A soft sound of appreciation escapes Gilgamesh’s lips, in spite of his best efforts. He spies the faint smirk Ardyn wears just before he turns away.

Next is the king’s beauty regimen — all manner of scented lotions and balms, creams infused with exotic flowers purported to enhance vitality. Gilgamesh doesn’t know if any of it works, but it’s become something of a ritual: the cream to soothe the dark circles from beneath Ardyn’s eyes; the lotion to moisturise his face; the salve for hands that are calloused from so many hours of writing.

For this, Gilgamesh stands sentinel by the door, waiting, watching. He knows Ardyn could dismiss him at any point during this, or give him leave to relax — yet it’s all part of the roles they each play. Patiently, he endures the silence and the aching of his legs, until at last the king rises to his feet and moves to the bed.

‘Come.’

Gilgamesh crosses the room and stands before Ardyn where he sits gracefully at the edge of the bed. There’s something warm in Ardyn’s eyes, something softer and less commanding as he reaches for the straps of his Shield’s armour.

‘This is rather in the way, don’t you think?’ Ardyn purrs. ‘Why don’t we fix that?’

Gilgamesh sucks in a breath as Ardyn deftly opens the fastenings on his pauldrons one by one, and slipping each of them free and setting them aside. It’s the king’s turn to tend to his Shield, diligently removing each piece, each layer, revealing the man beneath.

Gilgamesh aches; throbs with need. He’d give anything to push Ardyn back on the bed, to lie with him, flesh upon flesh…

‘Getting there,’ Ardyn says. He tugs at the neckline of Gilgamesh’s tunic with a roguish grin. ‘We could do better, though, couldn’t we?’

Wordlessly, Gilgamesh nods. It’s as though Ardyn’s stolen his voice away with his touch — bewitched and entranced him.

The king undresses him in reverence, strong hands undoing buttons with infinite care and finesse. Gilgamesh can’t help but shiver as Ardyn’s hands brush his skin, smoothing over the planes of his shoulders and chest as he slips his tunic off. The garment falls to the floor, pooling at Gilgamesh’s feet, but Ardyn has already moved to his greaves. 

Ardyn has to reach around Gilgamesh’s legs to work open the bindings. Even the brush of his arms fills the Shield with such exquisite longing that it takes everything he has not to tremble.

‘There now.’

Ardyn wears a self-satisfied smirk as he presses his hand to the bare muscle of Gilgamesh’s chest. There’s lust in his eyes — the Shield’s own longing, reflected back in the king’s gaze — but he pulls away before long. Elegantly,  _ regally, _ like an alpha coeurl, Ardyn crawls up the bed and drapes himself upon it. His robe hangs rakishly about him, tied at the waist with a sash in such a way that it just barely protects his modesty.

_ Modesty. _ Hardly a concept that one would think to use to describe King Ardyn Lucis Caelum, first of his name.

Gilgamesh moves across the bed and settles himself by Ardyn’s legs. He tucks a hand beneath one of Ardyn’s shapely calves and lifts it into his lap; with probing fingers he seeks out the knots in Ardyn’s muscles. The groan of relief that the king gives is music to Gilgamesh’s ears. He chases it — coaxes another from Ardyn with his careful touch.

He feels the king relax beneath him, limbs steadily loosening as he works away the residual tension not already soothed from Ardyn by his soak in the bath. Gilgamesh knows his king’s body better than his own.

Ardyn comes alive, of course, as Gilgamesh works upwards. He can feel it in the way Ardyn’s thighs quiver; can hear it in the slight pant of his breath. The room is so warm now, the scent of the fragrant oil in Ardyn’s hair intoxicating; the Shield wonders if he might just be under a spell.

Emboldened, he dips down, touching a kiss to the taut muscle of Ardyn’s thigh. When the king gifts him with a soft moan of pleasure, he follows it with another. 

The king stirs, ready and willing — a flash of topaz eyes, an irresistible curl of his lips. Strong fingers thread through Gilgamesh’s hair, urging, coaxing. The Shield is more than willing to oblige.

By day, Ardyn is a demanding master. He expects strict silence that he may carry out his work; where he goes, Gilgamesh must shadow close behind. This, however — this is the Shield’s reward for his obedience, as his king becomes pliant beneath his touch.

Ardyn offers himself to him —  _ only him _ — and he takes what is willingly given. Eager lips wander over warm flesh; strong limbs give way to trembling in the throes of pleasure.

Night gives way to the dawn; Gilgamesh’s eyes are so heavy he’s fighting a losing battle to keep them open. In his arms, wrapped once more in silk, Ardyn gives a drowsy smile and lifts a gentle touch to his Shield’s cheek.

‘Sleep now,’ he says.

This is no order, rather a gentle suggestion — one which Gilgamesh is more than content to follow. When they rouse in a few hours and bathe and dress, they’ll assume their roles of king and protector once more. For now, in the twilight, they’re lovers wrapped up in peaceful slumber, limbs threaded through each other as though they are one.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](http://twitter.com/orchardofbones) | [tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com)


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